


In the Hall of Heroes

by terriku



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, No Spoilers, blue lions quartet, i wrote this before i got to the time skip of the game so (probably) no spoilers-
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 20:50:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terriku/pseuds/terriku
Summary: In the Hall of the All-Father, the person who greets her is not her warrior father who held Galatea through siege and famine, nor is it Glenn who died with a sword in his hand. It is her grandmother.





	In the Hall of Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> I am utterly and desperately devoted these stupid childhood friends.

When Ingrid passes into the Hall of Heroes, the person who greets her is not her warrior father who held Galatea through siege and famine, nor is it Glenn who died with a sword in his hand. It is her grandmother; white haired and hunchbacked, clutching a staff Ingrid has not seen since she was a child.

_Ingiridr_, her grandmother calls and Ingrid’s heart seizes. She has not been called that since she was a child and that feels so very, very long ago. She stands very still and feels the mist curls around her ankles.

_Ingiridr_, her grandmother calls again, _come sit by me and tell me of the things that have passed._

If in instinct or in will, she could not say, but Ingrid walked forward through the mist and it parted around her. She stands in front of amma and Ingrid does not know how to start but when she sits down the words just come flowing out of her like a brook. She tells her grandmother of her family, of her brothers. She talks of the years at the Officer’s Academy, of Garreg Mach Monastery and the war that followed. Of Faerghus, and her king, and the years that came after. All the while, amma taps her hand in the steady, soft one-two, of her childhood. She stops and turns to face Ingrid.

_And the king you served, was he worthy of you? _

Dimitri comes to her mind vividly and Ingrid remembers his back, of how it had been broad even in childhood. She remembers Dima when he was nothing more than a beast, when there was blood dripping from his teeth and how in that moment, she could not have been sure if it was his own or someone else’s. She remembers Dimitri, standing in the rain and the way his hair plastered against his face, a thousand years away from the shy prince of Faerghus who used to follow at Glenn’s heels. How Dima would fall asleep with reports scattered across his desk and how, without fail, the next morning he would find her and say thank you even though Ingrid had covered him with his own cloak.

She smiles, despite it all. “Yes amma, he was.”

Her grandmother smiles and it is a little crooked in a way Ingrid has never noticed. _I know he was, Ingiridr, for now he throws feasts for the people to remember your name and in private he hosts your children at his table as if they are his own. He honors you as a knight, and mourns you in private as a king should._

_And of the man you chose, was he worthy of you?_

Sylvain is not Glenn. Sylvain is the furthest thing from Glenn and Ingrid had loved him regardless. For Sylvain had looked at everything glory and justice and nobility had offered; for Sylvain had looked at the path that stretched out in front of him, an outstretched hand that belonged to someone treasured, and he had looked back at Ingrid who stood in a place that he would not have chosen, and he had stayed. Ingrid had loved him before that of course, against all common sense and all good judgement, but she loved him all the more after for she knew that she could not have made the same choice.

“Yes, he was.”

At this, her grandmother smiles and stands up straight as if she has never needed a cane at all. She moves and as she does the mists part and golden light floods Ingrid’s vision. _Come, Ingriidr, they are waiting for you. Your mother, your father, your brothers, and Glenn too._ She sees now the bridge, and beyond that the feasting hall of the All-Father. Amma’s hand is outstretched and Ingrid has already moved to a stand, has already half taken her grandmother’s outstretched hand between heartbeats, but then she stops and she straightens. Her hand falls back to her side.

“I will, amma, but first there is someone I must greet.”

Her grandmother smiles and it crinkles her eyelids. It makes her look all-knowing, as if this is the answer she had expected to receive all along. Ingrid watches as amma turns and walks across the bridge. In the distance, the great doors of the feasting hall open and close.

The mists close in around her and Ingrid waits.

When Dimitri comes, he has the look of a king just past his prime. There is still strength in his posture and his back is still straight but there are crows’ eyes at his feet and laugh lines too. Once Ingrid might have thought Dimitri would never laugh again, but time has proven her wrong and wrong again. When he sees her, a great smile curves across his face and fills his entire face with light.

“Ingrid,” he greets and leans to embrace her.

“Your Highness,” Ingrid says with a knight’s bow because that is who she is. And Dimitri’s brow crumples and he is about to rebuke her, but Ingrid laughs and presses her face into his neck before he can protest. “Dima,” she says breathing in his cold-winter scent, “it is good to see you again.”

He holds her back from him so he can see her face and smiles again. Dima’s smile fills Ingrid with light too, and it threatens to overflow out of her.

“They are well,” he tells her without prompting; the kids, both his and her’s, and Sylvain and the queen and everyone else that Ingrid holds dear. And the Kingdom is well and safe and at peace. The crops grow year by year and the cows fatten. The land is cold still, but that is Faerghus and some things do not change.

“Go on then,” she tells him when he has finished, “your father and mother and Glenn are waiting for you.”

Dima stands and his hand lingers at Ingrid’s elbow. “You will wait for him then?” And she nods in assent. “We will wait for you guys then, whenever you are ready.”

Ingrid watches as Dima crosses the bridge and as the years fall away from him, until he is once again the Dima of her memory. The High King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, Dimitri of the boar and the spear, Loog come again. And Dima. Yes, Dima, the Dima of her youth that had grown up at her side and dogged Glenn’s heels with all the tenacity of a yearling pup. Ingrid sees that too.

Sylvain has not come fully through the mist and yet Ingrid knows it is him. He is an aged man, hair peppered with white, but with each step he takes the years fall from his face until he stops in front of Ingrid and he is once again the man she called husband. He has the lopping smile that used to haunt her in the Academy, a portend of troubles to come, the one she has grown to call endearing in her heart. Ingrid has never admitted this but there is no need. As with so many things between them, Sylvain already knows.

“Ingrid,” he says and he does not need to say anything more. Ingrid knows too. That he has missed her, and loved her, and their children are well and strong and he is proud, and that he loves her still. Sylvain looks at her and Ingrid knows that from that day until this day, Sylvain has held no one else dearer in his heart.

She cups his face and he leans into her touch with all the yearning and tenderness of the years that have passed. “Go,” she says, “they are waiting for you. Miklan too.”

Sylvain has always been happy to walk to her pace but he has never been ruled by it. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to her lips. It is not hungry. It is familiar, comforting, the taste of home. He presses his forehead to her’s and he says: “Bring him home, Ingrid.”

“I will,” she says.

Ingrid waits. The sea of mists that append the land of the living and the land of the dead ebbs and flows without any measure of time. Beyond is the great feasting hall of the All-Father, the Hall of Heroes where Loog and Kyphon and her family and her king live again in their eternal youth. But Ingrid has always held duty close to her heart and she waits for her duty is not yet complete. 

When Felix steps out of the mists, his eyes catch on Ingrid and stay there for a very long time. Ingrid feels at the back of her neck it as if it is a heavy thing, but she raises her eyes to his regardless. He is old now and there is a wiry aged strength to him that speaks of a life-time well lived. His skin is dark with sun and there are liver spots too. Ingrid had last seen Felix on the battlefields of the war, down the length of his sword when they'd both been youths, but she recognizes him anyways.

She would, she knows, recognize him anywhere. When she rises, Felix stands stock still like a deer, as if she is an enemy or a ghost, or perhaps both.

“Felix,” Ingrid says as she holds out her hand, “come. Let’s go home, everyone is waiting for us.”


End file.
